


Antebellum

by wearwind



Series: Choice of the Champion [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Amaranthine, Cameos, Drama, F/M, Gen, Grey Wardens, Leading up to the Inquisition plotline, Life after terrorism, Magic, Post-Canon, Post-DA2, Responsibility, Vigil's Keep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:55:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8446606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearwind/pseuds/wearwind
Summary: After the fall of the Chantry, the world is falling to pieces. The war is coming, and the Champion of Kirkwall has spent too much time on the sea to afford any more for hesitation. There is a choice to be made - and sacrifices to be suffered.   Whose Champion are you, Hawke? Who do you fight for?Second part of the "Choice of the Champion" series, meant to cover Hawke's storyline between Kirkwall and Adamant. "Antebellum" deals with the broader consequences of the Kirkwall battle, as well as the reason for Hawke's disappearance. Finished, will post chapters regularly. Subscribe for updates!





	1. First blood

_Antebellum” is a Latin word loaned into English, meaning “before the war” (ante-pre, bellum-war)._

 

 

Aedale spun around and lunged into the dew still looming over the village.

“I’ve noticed there are two kinds of people,” said Varric conversationally, taking Bianca off his shoulder and following suit. “The kind that runs away from ominous screams, and the kind that runs _towards_ them.”

Fenris raised the corner of his mouth in an ironic half-smile, already half a pace in front of the dwarf. “And the kind that causes them.”

They stopped.

There was a gathering of people in front of them, a murmuring, faceless crowd in the dew. Aedale cursed inwardly. She elbowed the person in front of her, prompting a loud hiss and a string of profanities, and squeezed through. They were fishermen and farmers, with pale Fereldan faces, dark hair, and brown clothes, their faces angry and scared.

And there was a mage in their midst.

The man was an alchemist; one breath and Aedale could smell the sharp sting of blood lotus, felandaris, and fire essence. He was also dirty. His long blue robe was wet and muddy, his hair tousled wildly, and his cheek marked with a clear fresh bruise. He was kneeling at a large stone in the middle of the square, a man and a woman stood behind him; one forcing his head and hands down, the other searching him hastily.

“Help!” yelled the alchemist wildly. No one in the crowd moved.

Aedale breathed in and out, very slowly.

“What is this man’s crime?” she asked without raising her voice. The townspeople moved away from her.

The woman searching the alchemist looked up and sneered. “You’re from the ship, aren’t you! This is our business. Walk on.”

Aedale tightened her lips. “I don’t think so. What has this man done to deserve mob justice?”

“He’s a mage, that’s what he’s done. They hate the Maker! His kind killed the Grand Cleric in the Free Marches!” The crowd cheered grimly to this, shooting angry looks at the captive in their midst.

“I didn’t- I don’t-” moaned the mage. The man holding him slammed his head into the stone. There was a nauseating crunch and the alchemist’s body went limp, slumping onto the boulder lifelessly.

The crowd murmured approvingly.

Aedale closed her eyes. The darkness underneath her eyelids was red.

Then she slammed her fist into the ground. It shook wildly; the people fell to their knees, screaming in surprise and fear.

“Why don’t you try your luck with someone who can actually defend themselves,” she hissed through gritted teeth. The woman – the cleric of the meagre Chantry of Forthing, she guessed – let out a wild high-pitched scream.

“A maleficar! Kill her!”

“You just killed an innocent man in cold blood,” whispered Aedale through the red veil of fury. “Just because he was different than you. Just because you were scared and angry. You murdered a man.”

She felt a weak tug at her side. “Hawke-”

“ _Not now, Varric._ ”

“Hawke, don’t kill these people-” The townsfolk were cowering on the ground, with anger and fear on their faces, and Aedale felt that only the fact they didn’t know how powerful she was stopped them from lunging at her. _That’s it. Let someone else do it. Let someone else try first._

“I won’t.” She smiled brightly through the gritted teeth. “’Cause that would be murder. You know? Like what we just saw here?” She walked up to the cleric, which drew a short blade out of her boot.

“Don’t you dare, maleficar! Maker take you!”

“What I intend to do,” said Aedale, the smile slipping off to reveal a face of stone, “is a trial.”

Varric blanched. “Hawke, whatever you think you’re doing, bloodshed isn’t generally the best way-”

“I am a _Champion,_ ” she snapped. “I fight for those who have none. And he didn’t.”  She extended a clenched fists towards the cleric in a universal gesture of challenge. “I demand a trial by combat for murdering an innocent man.”

The cleric sneered at her, too disgusted to make a coherent sound. The man at her side stood up from the corpse. “Who do you think you are, _abomination?_ We’ve seen people like you. There’s no difference between you and the darkspawn!” In a split second he moved – and mere instinct made her dodge a knife flying to her throat. The blade swished past her ear.

She didn’t see Fenris move behind her. Only at the shriek of the cleric she looked back to the man and saw the same dagger - reversed, thrown straight into his eye. He sucked in a surprised breath - and slumped onto the alchemist’s body heavily.

The crowd roared.

“For fuck’s sake,” murmured Isabela behind her back.

The chaos descended onto the town square. The people lunged at them at the same time, pushing through one another’s backs, clumsy and maniacal in their bloodlust. Varric fired several warning shots to the ground and then three men leapt towards him, threatening to strangle him with their heavy weight alone. Fenris did not concern himself with subtleties like warnings – he plunged his fist into the first man to lunge at him, squeezing violently at his heart. Blood splattered the cobblestone.

He saw people fleeing at this sight. _Good._

It was quick. Several bodies were lying on the ground, seemingly lifeless; he doubted whether all of them were, given Varric’s reluctance to kill. The rest of them cowered on the ground or fled for their lives.

Hawke held the cleric by her throat.

Fenris rushed to her, but was frozen immediately by the look of his lover’s face.

“Why did you allow this?” hissed Aedale. The cleric gurgled and spat on her face, but she continued unmoving. “You killed a man. Why?”

“To… the… Void _…_ with you mages,” wheezed the woman. “Kirkwall… my… sister… dead…”

Aedale stilled and let her down. She fell to her knees, coughing.

“Your sister preached in the Kirkwall Chantry.” Fenris watched her hand as she subconsciously reached to her chest, to the list of the dead.

The town square was silent and bloody.

“Hate,” said Aedale quietly, “breeds more hate.” She looked at the woman at her feet. “I could kill you. I have the right. But I also have more blood on my hands than you ever will.” She looked at the limp body of the alchemist, squished under the weight of his killer’s corpse, and blinked twice, very heavily. Then she flicked her fingers in a quick gesture; a white flame blossomed under the bodies, charring them to ash in seconds, murderer and victim indistinguishable.

She turned away and started walking. “We’re done here.”

No-one stopped her.

-/-

The journey to Amaranthine was long, bleak and depressing. The sailors were battling unfriendly winds and stormy weather; Aedale shut herself in her cabin and did not come out for a long while. When she did, her face was pale but hard.

“We’ve spent too much time on sea. Time to get back to business,” she said, without a trace of her trademark smile, completely devoid of humour.

“You do realise we left a sworn enemy behind us now, don’t you, Chuckles?” said Varric without raising his eyes from the parchments. He had been writing for hours.

“Right now I very much prefer leaving enemies behind rather than more names on the list,” said Aedale briskly. “About that. How many did we kill in that skirmish?”

“At least five, not counting the mage and the guy who threw a knife at you. One was murder and the other was very clearly a suicide.”

She took his quill and added seven more lines to the list, which she then tucked back under her shirt.

“This is one hell of a grim bingo you’re playing, Chuckles. Stop that.”

“Think of it as... keeping count.”

Varric shook his head and said nothing, hunching back over the desk. The ship shook as another heavy gush of the wind struck its side.

 “What in the Void did we start,” he muttered under his breath.

Things did not get better as they finally reached Amaranthine. The news from Kirkwall had preceded them; and Hawke whitened even further as she saw the Chantry preachers on the streets, spewing fiery sermons about the evil magic spiralling out of control. Amaranthine had been hit hard by the Blight; and even after seven years, the destruction and unrest that it’d caused was a ripe ground for hatred.

“It’s Grey Wardens’ city now,” Isabela said quietly as they passed yet another street preacher. “They’re good folk. They won’t like it any bit more than we do.”

Indeed, every once in a while they would pass a grey-clad warrior with a griffin emblem on their chests; they did not seem comfortable with the resounding sermons.

“Go and adhere to your pirate honour code, Isabela,” said Aedale. “Fenris and I will go to the Keep and talk to the Wardens. Anders… Anders said he’d stationed there before he’d gone to Kirkwall, maybe we can call in a few favours-“

“We’re not going to call in favours in the name of the _abomination-_ ”

“That’s _enough,_ Fenris,” snapped Aedale. He stopped mid word. “I’ve had enough mage hatred over the last couple of days. We’ll see you back on the ship at dusk, Isabela.”

The pirate cast them a worried look and walked away.

Heavy silence hung between them as they made their way to the Keep, situated outside of the city by more than an hour’s walk. Aedale pursed her lips and refused to say anything.

They saw Vigil’s Keep from the distance: a grey, bulky castle rising up from the forest, a distant reminder of how Ostagar must have looked like in its glory days. Archers from the towers noticed them as they approached. After a short while, a dark-haired man emerged from the gate; the griffon on his breastplate was scarcely seen through the numerous repairs and scars on the metal and leather, but it was still shining. There was a heavy longbow on his back.

“Welcome, strangers. Who are you and what are you seeking from the Grey Wardens?”

Aedale narrowed her eyes. “I think I know you. Do I know you?”

The man’s face remained impassive. “I doubt it. State your business with the Wardens.”

“Ah!” She punched the air. “I _do_ know you. You were passing through Kirkwall when all this Qunari riot happened. Anders spoke of you... Nathan, Nolan… Nathaniel?”

The Warden narrowed his eyes, a recognition dawning slowly. “Champion of Kirkwall.”

“The very same!”

“The Warden-Commander will see you,” he said shortly. He made a gesture and the heavy gate was pulled open, just wide enough for three people to pass.

“What, and you’re not asking anymore what I’m coming for? Spoilsport. I was just about to drop the-”

“We know what happened in Kirkwall, Champion,” said Nathaniel Howe, disappearing in the belly of the castle, and they could not do anything but follow suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Antebellum: the second instalment of “the Choice of the Champion,” a series intended to retrace Hawke’s journey from Kirkwall to Adamant. (You can find part one, [‘On the run’](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8398411/chapters/19241941), on my profile.) As the name suggests, Antebellum deals with the events directly before the Mage-Templar War on a broader scale. All the chapters are finished and will be published regularly. Do subscribe/bookmark, and while you’re at it you can leave a comment! I’d really really appreciate that. Thanks for being here, and have a nice read!


	2. Information

_“Antebellum” is a Latin word loaned into English, meaning “before the war” (ante-pre, bellum-war)._

“Oi, Nate! The Warden-Commander has left.” A dwarf called after them as they were squeezing through the castle mess, Aedale forced to stretch her flexibility to the limits not to punch any eating Grey Warden in the face. It was dinner time, and the hall was filled full.

“What- again?!” Nathaniel turned back, bemused. “When?”

“She said not to tell you, or you’d be grumpy.” The red-haired dwarf snickered and then burped loudly. The Wardens around him greened slightly and huddled away. “Couple of hours ago. She got a raven from Denerim and off she went, back to the hubby. Must have been one hell of a booty call.”

“What did the raven bring?” asked Aedale before Nathaniel could speak. He shot her a dirty look.

The dwarf shrugged. “Hell if I know, lady. None of my business and sure none of yours.”

“Thank you, Oghren,” said Nathaniel, clearly annoyed, and turned back to Aedale. “Follow me, Champion.” He turned back so raptly that the longbow on his back smacked a sitting man across the head. Nathaniel did not stop to listen to the string of curses that followed.

“I seem to have a penchant for finding myself some exceptional brooders,” murmured Aedale to Fenris. He scoffed.

The office Nathaniel had led them into was small and high-ceilinged, with a tall stained glass window reddening the light of the sunset even further. There was a pile of papers on the desk, a couple of humble wooden chairs, a small painting of a griffin on the wall, and – left on the top of the pile like a paperweight – a winged golden crown.

Nathaniel murmured something under his breath and picked up the crown, hiding it protectively in one of the drawers.

Aedale grinned. She did hear the stories circulating about the queen, but…

The Warden sat down behind the desk and gestured them to the chairs in front of him. There was something about his curtly, confident movements that belied the status of a Grey Warden and spoke of nobility, knighthood, and wealth. She spotted the nearly-rubbed off insignia of the house Howe on his sleeve – the only part of armour that wasn’t meticulously cleaned – and the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

“I thought the Howe family were no longer ruling in Amaranthine.”

“You are not wrong, my lady.” His smile was forced and fake, with a badly hidden shadow of irritation underneath. “This has been a Grey Warden keep since the Blight. I answer to the Warden-Commander directly.”

“Is she coming back here? I was meant to talk to the royalty in Denerim and to the Wardens here, but if I can squish both into one conversation, that would be dandy.” Aedale sat down and propped her elbows on the desk, staring at Nathaniel intently. “You were… a friend of Anders’ once, weren’t you?”

The Warden closed his eyes for a second. “I was,” he said stiffly. “But I do not know the man that blew up Kirkwall.”

“He fought for a cause,” said Aedale quietly. “And he himself was the first casualty. In the end, there was nothing of a man _I_ knew in him either.” She made a short pause. “But it doesn’t make the cause any less just. I wanted to talk to the Warden-Commander about the protection of the Kirkwall mages.”

Nathaniel avoided her glance. “You’ve been travelling for a while, Champion, haven’t you?” he asked slowly.

Aedale blanched. “What was that thing that the raven brought?”

He hesitated.

“You are a good leader, Champion. Your father has done great things for the Wardens. I’m sure you didn’t want this –“

“ _Tell me what was in that letter._ ”

Nathaniel pursed his lips, hesitated, and then relented. “It’s Jainen,” he said shortly. “It’s revolting.”

Aedale closed her eyes. “Fereldan Circle?” she asked weakly.

“It’s been building up to this for days. The Warden-Commander is barely even in the keep anymore. She’s been trying to calm the situation, but if she’s gone again…”

“We saw a mob murder a mage this morning,” said Fenris after a long pause. “Forthing. Amaranthine is full of angry preachers.”

Nathaniel turned his face to him, seemingly slightly surprised to hear his voice. “Forthing,” he said heavily. “The Circle had a herbalist there. Studying some rare plants, if I recall. Harmless. We thought it was bad, but…”

“Can the Wardens recruit the revolted mages into a special unit? You are above the law, I am told.” Aedale straightened on her chair, all playfulness gone from her tone. “Invoke the Right of Conscription and have them brought to you. You can save lives.”

“We don’t conscript masses,” said Nathaniel. “And all we have to offer is a life of servitude and an early death. We can save some, Champion, but not all of them.”

“Maker’s mercy, they’re mages. They can shoot lightning, heal, craft potions and freeze people. Are you sure you can’t just hold a non-Warden unit in the Keep until the tension fizzles out?”

“Champion…” said Nathaniel slowly, with heavy finality. “There are more ravens coming to the Keep every day. Ansburg Circle has revolted, the one in Hasmal is halfway through a coup. The tower in Kinloch Hold is only held together by a couple of senior enchanters. This is _not_ going to fizzle out.”

Aedale rested her head on her palms.

“Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?” she asked in a weak voice after a long pause. “We boarded the ship three days after the Chantry exploded. Tell me what happened after that.”

-/-

Nathaniel’s account was brief, concise and terrifyingly exact. With an unnervingly stoic voice he described the political upheaval that followed the events in Kirkwall, prompting a violent reaction of the Chantry clerics and squeezing down on the mage rights. That, combined with the fact that the well-known and popular Champion of Kirkwall lent her support to the mage rebellion, sparked a sudden and uncontrollable raise in the ranks of the Circle Separatists. In retaliation, the templars clamped down on the wayward mages. There were incidents.

“Incidents,” said Hawke flatly. Things that Malcolm Hawke would talk about in hushed whisper, his eyes angry and fiery despite his quiet voice. _Incidents._ “Go on, please.”

The Circles in the Free Marches were first to go. After over a half of mage students in Ansburg attempted an organised escape and were all threatened with Tranquility, the senior staff stood in their defence. The revolt happened overnight, quick and violent and bloody, and the surviving templars fled the Circle – only to be murdered by the mage refugees from Kirkwall.

Fenris pursed his lips and looked pointedly away from Aedale.

Separatists in Hasmal attempted a similar feat, but were being fought in a more efficient way than in Ansburg. The Circle siege was still ongoing; the mages had proclaimed independence, the templars the Right of Annulment, and it did not look like it was going anywhere.

Then it was Jainen.

Nathaniel stopped and rubbed his temples. “I’m not the best person to report it to you, Champion. What I know is not the whole picture, and this is because Claire– because  the Warden-Commander kept it secret from all of us. You might find it useful to speak to her in Denerim.”

Aedale eyed him up. “This is her office, right?”

“Correct.” Nathaniel didn’t blink. “Also irrelevant.”

“If she left the documents anywhere, it would be here. Is that also correct?”

The Warden straightened up in his chair. “I can’t let you do this, Champion. This is classified information.” But his eyes darted towards the pile of parchments on the desk.

“Where were you when the Blight started?”

“Pardon?” Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. He pressed his lips into a thin line. “This is no business of yours, Champion.”

Aedale laid her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I was in Lothering, you know. With my sister and brother, and mother. We knew the darkspawn were coming. We should have started running ages ago, and some did. We just didn’t know which direction. The horde was closing in, there were Blight wolves on the fields, Chasids screaming that we were all doomed. So we thought we should follow in the footsteps of the only person who seemed like they knew what they were doing: the Grey Warden.” She looked him straight in the eye. “But she had already left. I am _done_ following Claire Cousland for salvation.”

“This is not-”

“This is _worse_ than a Blight, because we’re doing that to ourselves!” Aedale snapped. “ And if you’re not seeing the signs, then obviously you haven’t been paying attention ten years ago. I will _not_ wait for the Warden-Commander to come back and save me. Are you going to help me stop that mess, or will you be on the wrong side of history yet again, Nathaniel _Howe?”_

Nathaniel flinched. His hand reflexively rose up to cover the worn insignia on his sleeve – but he forced it down with obvious conscious effort. A flash of old shame crossed his features, before smoothening back into a calm mask.  

“How low you stoop, Champion.”

“The stakes are high enough.” Hawke held his gaze without blinking.

Nathaniel turned away first, lowering his eyes to the desk and the pile of parchments on it. “What do you want?”

“Information.” Without asking, Aedale spread the papers on the entire desk. _Varric would have squealed at this,_ she thought, looking at meticulously written out spy reports, shipment receipts, and what seemed like a diplomatic exchange gone horribly wrong. There was one letter on the top of the pile, with its messy handwriting different from the others, not bearing the characteristic marks of a raven’s claws: this had not been sent.

_Wynne,_

_I know you can’t leave Kinloch Hold in this situation, but I really wish you were with me right now – this mage business is way over my head. If Jainen revolts, we’re risking the full wrath of Orlais rolling across Thedas in an Exalted March, but we can’t stop it! Alistair wanted to ride there immediately – can you imagine what catastrophe that would be, with all his Templar background? I managed to keep him away from Kinloch, thank the Maker, but we really need you here, Wynne. This… revolt is tapping into an entire world of prejudice and persecution I know nothing about, and I feel like I’m walking a booby-trapped field whilst completely blind. I’m trying to keep up, but that just means that I barely have the time to be a Warden-Commander anymore – the way Nathaniel looks at me every time I’ve ridden off is freezing._

_I’ve been in contact with the Revered Mother of Jainen. She’s an idiot. The Knight-Captain at the Circle there is not returning my ravens, so I’m fearing the worst. If the Circle is really infected as we spoke, I’m going to be up against another demon horde soon… Really brings back the memories, huh?_

_Keep me updated on the situation in Kinloch. And please, please come as soon as you can._

_Yours,_

_Claire_

“Are you quite done?” Nathaniel’s cold voice tore through her focus. Hawke put the letter down.

“No, I’m not. In fact, I’m just starting. But thanks for asking. Fenris, we’re going to Jainen. You don’t need to walk us back to the gate…”  

The elf wordlessly stood up and followed her to the door. But before they managed to get out, Nathaniel spoke quietly, bitterly:

“Was she the same, I wonder? When the Blight started. A woman with a title, with a hope to save the world, and little regard for everything else. I was at the _wrong side of history,_ I wouldn’t know.”

“Nor would I, sorry.” Aedale turned back. “Haven’t ever managed to catch up to her.”

 “You _are_ following Claire Cousland, Champion.”

“No.” She smiled mirthlessly. “She’s a queen, she picks her battles. I’m only a Champion.” A flame flickered on her hand, a tiny bright speck of magic, white-hot energy, the mark of responsibility. “I am given mine.”

She walked out of the room, and Fenris silently followed.

-/-

As they were coming back to the ship, a messenger caught up to them. He was carrying a large cage with restlessly cawing ravens.

“From the Warden-Captain, my lady.” As Hawke took the cage, bemused, she noticed a curt note at the side of it.   

_Champion,_

_Keep up._

Aedale laughed earnestly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, a political player without at least one raven messenger? Maybe in Kirkwall that’s enough, but not at the scale of a continent. Listen to Uncle Nate, Hawke.


	3. Arson

**CHOICE OF THE CHAMPION**

**Part II: ANTEBELLUM**

**Chapter 3: Arson**

The first thing they noticed was a trail of while smoke from the docks.

Aedale stopped in her tracks. Then she cursed badly and started running. Soon they heard the screams and swearing, and a dog’s angry howling, and the sound of wood clashing against wood; and a dry, crackling hiss of the flames.

Isabela’s ship was on fire. 

The other sailors in the bay were frantically trying to move their vessels away from the flaming ship, splashing and tugging and yelling. Her hound was on the pier, his short fur ruffled angrily – at the first glance, Aedale couldn’t spot Isabela, and her heart stopped for a millisecond; but then there she was, her hair dishevelled and her captain hat gone, and the expression of pure unabated fury on her face. Varric was at her side, a handful of parchments hastily jammed under his shirt.

The flames were eating the sails, spreading onto the masts to the top. The crew had formed a human chain of buckets and were trying to smother the fire, but it had spread too high; the bottoms of the sails were just black ash and embers. Fenris cursed darkly, in harsh, violent Tevene; in a blink of an eye he jumped onboard and grabbed a bucket from one of the sailors. Vindr howled after him. 

“ _My staff!_ ” yelled Hawke. He hesitated for a split second, looking at the ship with thinned lips; then he passed the bucket along, and broke the chain. In a flash he disappeared in the heavy smoke below deck. Aedale raised her arms and shot an icy spell into the flaming sail; but it was too heavy, too unfocused without staff channelling, and a dense lump of ice tore a hole through the cloth. The mast creaked and bent sideways.

“About fucking time, Hawke!” yelled Isabela. She was trembling from helpless rage.

“The mast is going to fall!” As Aedale shouted, there was another loud crack, and a burning spreader beam fell off from the top of the mast. The sailors jumped sideways, but the flames were spreading faster than they could pour the water on it. The deck sagged under the blow, the fire immediately catching on the broken wood.

“FENRIS!” shrieked Hawke. Another spreader beam fell down, crushing the top deck at the entrance, and red mist covered her vision. She closed her fists and swirled her hands through the air – _it was not happening, not now, not now, not after everything, not in the fire –_ “Abandon ship! NOW!” A white curtain of ice enveloped the ship, melting in the scorching heat, the ship disappearing behind dense clouds of smoke and steam.

 _I – we still have to talk – you can’t -_  

She heard several heavy splashes through the thick white smoke, muted against the crackling of the fire – _too few, way too few for all the crew to have jumped –_ and reached for the magic in the heart, the fiery ribbons of blood gradually turning to ice, _no, not ice, water._ It was not supposed to be possible. She’d never done it. But the ship was on fire, and Fenris was trapped under the deck, and the crackling flames sounded like she was in the heart of her own firestorm, and it broke free, and it was _vengeful_  – there had to be a way. Over the flames she heard the foremast crack and fall into the water, the wreckage crashing into the next ship. The sailors on it started screaming. 

She focused on the pounding in her head, the shimmer inside her veins, that rhythm that was innate, tidal, coming and going at the push of the moon – it would be just the same, it comes and goes with the moon –

Hawke pulled at the sea.

And the sea bent, and slowly, gradually a tide rose from the bay until it was higher than the ship, translucently green-and-blue like an underwater wall, the debris and litter still floating inside, held with an invisible squeezing hand. Hawke sucked in a shaky breath; her entire body trembled with impossible effort to keep the heavy masses of water just for a second longer, higher –

And then the tide roared and crashed, colliding with the ship like a storm against the lighthouse. The entire bay shook, the docked ships wobbling violently on their lines, crashing against each other and the pier. The tide reached the land in one violent sweep and Hawke’s vision went black as she was hit, crushed under the incoming water, all air gone from her lungs and up becoming down –

One more crash tore through the air, and the burnt main mast fell heavily, almost leisurely, into the water.

Aedale grabbed the edge of the pier, desperately trying to hold on against the returning water. She scrambled to her feet, rubbing her eyes frantically – but her legs gave way and she slipped on the wet wood, hitting herself hard on in the temple. Raising her head and blinking away the blackness, she opened her mouth.

“FEN-” A violent cough stopped her, and then there was nothing.

-/-

The walls were grey and stony. A rectangle of colourful light from the stained glass made the room slightly more warm, but only just.

A wet snout was pressed to her hand.

Hawke blinked, fighting against the feeling that she had just been trampled over by a dragon.

Then the reality crashed into her – just as violently as the tide had. She tried to sit up and failed. Her mouth opened, but the only sound that came out was a weak sigh.

Isabela’s face entered her field of vision. She had a big bruise on her cheek, and on her temple a painful reddening burn. Her eyes were red too, puffy and wet.   

“You’re awake!”

Aedale started hyperventilating. If Isabela had been hurt whilst _on_ the deck, Fenris would have– _he couldn’t have –_

“Oh, for fuck’s- we’re all okay, Hawke. We’re okay.” Isabela sighed and closed her eyes. Aedale’s breath slowed down. At the corner of her vision, she discovered the mystery of the wet snout; Vindr propped himself on two legs and leaned to lick her face. Somebody’s hand swatted him away.  

“Bad dog! I’m fine too, thanks for asking,” said Varric’s voice from the darkness behind her eyelids. He sounded a bit croaked, but otherwise normal. “But the ship’s not.”

She was glad that she couldn’t see Isabela’s face. “It will be,” said the pirate with only the slightest tremor in her voice. “We’ll rebuild her in no time. We’ll travel all together soon, Hawke, don’t you worry. I’ll get you the fastest, sleekiest, sexiest ship Thedas has ever seen.”

“In no time, Rivaini,” said Varric gently. Then Aedale heard sobbing, suddenly muffled; as if the pirate hid her face in the dwarf’s broad, comforting embrace.      

 _I need to apologise to Fenris,_ she thought, before slipping off into dreamless sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Sorry about that.


	4. The unthinkable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unthinkable happens.

They were back in the Keep.

Floating in the muffled half-reality somewhere between conscious and subconscious, Aedale could feel the moist, cold smell of ancient stone before she even open her eyes. She was dimly aware that there were voices too, Varric’s brazen teasing and someone else’s exasperated voice… exasperated, deep voice with a Fereldan accent, rich, educated vowels, the way Fenris could have sounded if he’d had a life of privilege – _Fenris._ She suddenly remembered his thinned lips as he disappeared below deck, and then the crash when the burning spreader beam hit the board… _I need to see you. I need…_

Aedale opened her eyes and - the light was blinding. She squeezed her eyelids shut, wincing at the sudden brightness. Her throat was dry, thick; she tried to swallow and found out that the muscles squeezing at her throat are almost too weak for that. She pushed; her heart started beating quicker, but the larynx moved up and down.

She was drained.

There was a brush of a calloused hand on her wrist, a touch of fingers not too soft to be sentimental, but gentle enough to show care. “You pulled the sea,” said Isabela quietly, in the same manner all bedside visitors talk to unconscious patients; softly, distantly, in a mumble more to herself than to Aedale. “You couldn’t save her anyway, but you still did it. For us. For him.” Her voice broke.

Cold tendrils of fear started creeping up towards Aedale’s heart. Something was wrong. Something was…

“You know, a part of me kinda hopes you won’t wake up anytime soon. Not to this. Is it weird?” Isabela let out a short bark of dry, humourless laugher. “If I could get my hands on that fucking cleric…” There was an echo of fire in her voice, anger burning so hot that it never went away, not even at her calmest, not completely.

 _Oh. I guess it makes sense. I knew I was making enemies._ Aedale focused on swallowing again. It was surprisingly difficult. _This is about the ship. This is about the ship and nothing else…_

“You pulled the sea to save us,” repeated Isabela, more quietly, but her voice still resonated in the high stone-walled chamber. “You fucking moron, Hawke.” The hand squeezed at her wrist, as much of a thank-you than Isabela would ever offer.

_I’m a Champion. I save people. I make them live._

_Where’s Fenris?_

Consciousness floated away as gently as it’d appeared, pulling Aedale’s mind back into the bottomless darkness of the sea. 

-/-

“She’s not waking up. You hear what the Wardens said, she’s empty! At some point we’ll have to-”

“Fenris would have killed you for even suggesting that.”

“Fenris is _not here,_ Varric! And neither is Hawke! Fucking excuse me if I want to save at least _one-_ ”

“Isabela,” said Varric’s voice with a calm, dangerous note betraying sharpness underneath. “Even saying that in these walls could bring an Exalted March on our asses. You sure you want to finish that sentence?”

“ _I don’t care,_ ” snapped Isabela. “I don’t care about the fuckin’ Divine on her pissin’ yellow throne or her Templar hounds, the only thing I care about is waking her the hell up, and the only one that could do that now is _Anders_!”      

Silence.

Aedale felt as if her blood was freezing over slowly, a cold, numbing sensation spreading from her heart through the entire body. She didn’t try to open her eyes. _Fenris is not here. Save at least one-_

It was wrong. It had to be wrong. There wasn’t a rational world where it would be right.

“You happy with yourself now, Rivaini?” said Varric, his tone gravely sarcastic. “Wanna shout it from the rooftops now? Maybe run to our nice broody friend’s office and tell him that we’re going to spare him the trouble of investigation, ‘cause the most fucking wanted apostate of Thedas is going to show up on his doorstep and play doctor?”

“He owes that to her. At least that.”

“Damn right he does. And he probably owes her enough that we could ask him to come here, heal her, and die on the spot, and that would be mercy.” There was something dark and awful in Varric’s voice. “But if he does come here, _she_ is screwed. She’ll be held accountable for everything, and they won’t ask questions, because Kirkwall’s still burning. I know how it works, Isabela. I wrote too many stories.”

Hawke tried to move her lips. _Fenris._ She failed. When she reached for the magic in her veins to help her, there was only a faint shimmer deep inside, nothing else.

“There could be another spirit healer,” said Varric after a long pause. “That’s also in the stories. If she’s good enough for the Hero of Ferelden, she’d be good enough for Chuckles. Her name is-”

“Wynne,” said Nathaniel’s voice from the door. Hawke felt the tension suddenly filling the room.

“Well, that should be enough for today’s lesson in Why You Should Never Disclose Sensitive Information At A Grey Warden’s Keep,” said Varric conversationally. “What’s the news, Broody? Your spying skills are abysmal.”

“Nothing you’ve said is a novelty to me,” replied Nathaniel dryly. “We expected you to be in contact with Anders. We also expected you to have enough sense not to have him come to the Keep. However, we also have no desire to let the Champion of Kirkwall die on our ground.”

“We’re _not_ in contact with Anders-”

“Shush, Rivaini. So what about Wynne the healer?”

“She’s in Kinloch Hold. The Warden-Commander requested her presence here in a letter she’s never sent…”

A pause.

“You would do that?”

“I would, Master Tethras.”

“Why?”

Another pause, a longer one.

“Because there are things that need doing.”

“Are you sure you’re a Howe?”

“No,” said Nathaniel, and bitter irony sounded in his voice. “This time, I’m a Grey Warden. And I have known Claire Cousland long enough to recognise her even with another face.”

“Thank you, Broody.” Varric’s voice was suddenly old and tired. “I guess you do understand more than you let on, huh? We’ll wait for Archmage Wynne in the Keep, if that’s okay with you. Though Maker knows I don’t really want to look Hawke in the eye when she wakes up.”

“My condolences. I’ve been told they were… close.”

_What?_

_No._

_No._

_Please, Maker, please, I beg you, no._

Aedale opened her mouth and _screamed._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … Sorry.


	5. Unravelling

**CHOICE OF THE CHAMPION**

**Part II: ANTEBELLUM**

**Chapter 5: Unravelling**

 “I’m sorry, Hawke, I’m so, so, so sorry… I should have killed them. I should have-”

“Stop, Isabela. Just stop.”

“I-”

“She can’t hear you. Stop. Please.”

Words had no sense. Nothing had any sense. It was like that autumn morning after Hadriana when they woke up together and he said, _all I wanted was to be happy, just for a little while,_ and he closed the door. And he was gone. And the world was gone. Just the numbing pain left, nothing else, and she couldn’t even feel the world crashing on her head before it broke. The face of the Arishok, triumphant and red-stained. She’d thought she’d die. She hadn’t, and they’d hailed her the Champion, and the city cheered for her, and he was there, and he was at her side and she’d hoped it’d let him see how far she was willing to go protecting what she loved-

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“ _Isabela._ ”

“She heard us, Varric! That shithead said ‘my condolences’ and-”

“I know.”

“How can you even stay that fucking calm?! He was our friend, and he was her-”

“Shut the fuck up, Isabela.”

“Varric. Varric, are you- no, not you too, okay, you can get back to being calm!”

The lyrium singing inside his skin, like a whispered music of something too taunting, too precious… she’d thought herself lost when she’d first sensed it, it felt like blood magic and in some way it was it, the white swirling scars on his skin covering the pulsating crimson streams… he was _temptation,_ and he’d always been, lyrium and blood and life energy, and the way he hated it felt like he just hated himself. But he loved _her, my choice of following you, my choice of loving you,_ he said in that little inn on the Wounded Coast, and she’d waited for him for three long years.

She felt something hot and wet on her hand, a softly falling raindrop.

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” whispered Varric hoarsely. “So fucking sorry.”

She could hear the whispers of demons coming from across the Veil, and they were all croaking her name.

-/-

_The Arishok is charging at her again, and her hands are bloody where she’d fallen on them before. His eyes are glowing red._

_“You’re no Champion.”_

_He lunges at her, and his shape changes mid jump – what lands on her is a white wolf with blood-stained teeth, red eyes and red mouth closing the distance to her face, there are swirling patterns of lyrium on his skin and she reaches out, embraces the wolf, waits for the gigantic teeth to close on her face -_

_The wolf leaps over her in one easy jump, leaving her hands just grazing over the while fur, just an inch out of touch, and she’s falling, falling into the endless abyss of the Fade, she hears a distant cry and suddenly the air is blood, she’s choking, dying- there’s a touch on her skin, she raises her head with final effort and it’s Anders, his eyes are glowing blue, he’s clearing out the air – she can breathe again - and stretching out his hand -_

_“Come with me. I’ll free the mages for you. You’ve always known I loved you.”_

_“I-“ She struggles, but he reaches out and touches her face, and she’s suddenly light and free, and there’s a shining beam of golden light on the horizon, illuminating Anders’ face, he’s so hopeful and his ideals are worthy of following, worthy of trust…_

_“Get away from me.” She twists away, and just for a second, before it splits into the rage of the desire demon, Anders’ face falls in disappointment, and it breaks her heart._

_“He’ll love you now. With the elf gone, he’ll still love you. You still have someone out there who will. Do you want to find him?”_

_“Anders is-”But before she finishes, there’s Anders again, the young version of him, his hair is down and his eyes are glimmering, there’s no Fade light in them, just kindness and passion and light-hearted humour. She draws a shaky breath. “He’s my best friend-”_

_“I love you, Hawke.”_

_“I’d do anything for you, Anders. But don’t ask me to-” The Chantry is falling, the debris is crushing the people of Kirkwall, and Anders is standing in the middle of the explosion, his expression unchanged, his kind eyes glimmering. Jean-Luc’s head is poking out from under a piece of rubble, it’s smiling. “It’s for the mages,” says the disembodied head. “It’s what you wanted. It’s on you. On you, on you, on you.”_

_And suddenly it’s Fenris’ face._

_“You wanted your staff.” His lips are black, charred, his hair burned off, his eyes like the eyes of a fish, glazed over and watery and empty. He’s reaching forwards, clutching the charred piece of wood marked by a lightning pattern; and the Fade concentrates over it, as if it almost became more real._

_She touches him, and suddenly she’s burning, and she’s screaming, screaming, screaming-_

“Dear Maker.” A woman’s voice.

“With all due respect, lady, this is probably the worst thing you could say right now.”

“No, it’s not. I could have said, ‘My condolences’,” sounded a sharp rebuke. Varric did not reply. Aedale desperately tried to remember who said that last time, what it meant, why it was important-

_the flames rise, and over the sound of her own screeching she hears the crashing tides, the ocean closes over her head and suddenly she’s burning and drowning at the same time, and Fenris is there, his empty eyes boring into hers. Dead. Dead and it was her fault. One more name on the list, her list, there was the list of the dead and it was her fault. And there is no escape from the burning and drowning, and if it were she would not want it-_

“ _Champion._ ”

The voice resounded both in the Fade and in the physical world.

“ _Listen to me. There is a choice to be made._ ”

The choice. The choice of the Champion. _The list of the dead, and Fenris, and his lips kissing the tears off her face on the hidden path in the Vinmark, and she lowers her head to touch his temples, are you hurt, yes, I would never hit you, not just because I’m angry, and the walking corpse of Leandra Hawke, a badly-stitched doll walking through the flames-_

“ _Champion._ ”

Yes. She was still a Champion. 

“ _Listen to me. You have to make a choice._ ”

_“Yes,” agrees Fenris as she curls against him, his protective hand against her stomach, they’re in Kirkwall and he’d finally come back to her – and if it weren’t for the mages and the templars and the fact that she still can’t walk into mother’s rooms without turning into a sobbing mess – she’d be happy. Fenris is there. She’s waited for so long. But he’s there. “Will you stay with me?” he asks softly, there’s a deep husky tone in his voice and she wants, ah, she wants to say yes -_

“ _Champion!_ ”

_The hand on her stomach stands ablaze, and she screams._

“What in the Void are you doing-”

“Get _out,_ ” snapped the woman, and the doors slammed violently.

“ _You need to wake up, Champion. You’re killing yourself._ ”

_“Yes, and you should continue,” taunts Fenris, “This is how you’re going to be with me now, how else will you find me? You’re good at killing. Keep going.”_

_She digs her nails into his skin, and he smiles, a real, open smile, something Fenris would never do, not like this – and the disguise slips, and she can see the demon baring her teeth at her._

_“Fight it, Champion!” The voice sounding in her head is strengthening, it’s now clearer, louder. She looks forward and sees Bethany, hand in hand with Fenris, then there’s Leandra and Malcolm Hawke, they are all smiling at her, and there is no warmth in that smile-_

_“You let us die. You made us die.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“You’re weak._

_“Yes.” She closes her eyes. (“No!”, yells the disembodied voice in her head.)_

_“The only thing you can do now is die.”_

_She thinks about it. Fenris looks at her, and there’s forgiveness on his face, if she dies now she’ll be forgiven. She hesitates-_

_“Whose Champion are you, Aedale Hawke? Who do you fight for?”_

_It’s a sharp arrow splitting the Fade – a clear cut through the illusions into raw truth._

_“Those who have none.”_

_“Then make your choice, Champion. You stay and grieve, or you accept the challenge you are given. Your fight was never for you.”_

_She closes her eyes. There’s nothing on the other side, nothing, nothing – except the responsibility._

_“I choose.”_

_A bolt of lightning splits the world._

_And then there’s white._

_The Fade clears, and the illusions break under the weight of a powerful will. There is nothing save the empty horizon, and the looming shade of the Black City far in the distance; and a silhouette, white and shining in the empty grey, one single source of light._

_“Who are you?” she asks quietly._

_“Faith.”_

_“Why…” She hesitates. In the Fade, words meant reality. “Why do you do this?”_

_“Because you need me. And before your time comes and the sky is torn asunder, you will need me again.”_

_“Will I remember this?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“I don’t want to live anymore. Not without him. Not without everything else coming apart.”_

_“Your life is not yours alone. For every life you touch, there is a responsibility. For every choice you make, there are consequences. And for a leader, there is no turning back until they have led.”_

_She considers the spirit’s words. “But you’re Faith. This has nothing to do with faith. Why are you telling me this?”_

_“Because this is what you believe in,” says the spirit, and the world dissolves in soft white light._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m just going to go and sleep on my pile of angst.


	6. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke decides which side she's on.

_Hawke._ For a split second before she woke, a flash of white had the shape of a bird of prey, and it felt… familiar. A hawk. Hawke. Yes.

“Hawke!”

Aedale opened her eyes.

“Fucking finally!” cried Isabela, her voice breaking. Aedale blinked uncertainly, but the world didn’t seem like the Fade anymore. There were several faces against the grey stone ceiling, leaning over her in different degrees of concern and desperation: Isabela, Varric, Nathaniel Howe, and… a white-haired woman with kind, patient eyes.

“A pleasure to meet you, Champion. Although it wasn’t _you_ for whom I was called,” said Wynne with just the slightest shade of rebuke.

Nathaniel pinked. “Claire must have forgotten about the letter before she went away. I’ve already told you that.”

“Thank you, Nathaniel.” Wynne didn’t even look at him, like a patient schoolteacher who had elected not to question a transparent lie. “Can you speak, Champion?”

“Y-you,” croaked Aedale. “You were there. You told me to-”

“That wasn’t me, child.” But her eyes softened, and Hawke saw in that second that Wynne understood the exact measure of her grief. “I’m a spirit healer. And you’ve been healed by a spirit that I guided to you.”

“What happened?”

There was a pause. Varric sighed deeply and looked her straight in the eye. Suddenly he seemed very old and tired.

“The Chantry folk from Forthing, you remember them, Hawke? They… set our ship on fire. You were there. One arrow with a skins of oil, another one with the flame, and… You tried to save it, and Andraste only knows what you did, but you pulled the entire bay on us. And then you went off like a candle. You were out for days. The mages here couldn’t do anything, they said some nugshit on how you’ve drained your own life along with all that magic…”

“Fenris,” Aedale whispered through thickened throat, interrupting Varric’s rambling. “Where is he?”

“He was below deck. We… couldn’t find him, Hawke.” Varric held her gaze for a long second and looked away. “It’s not your fault. We shouldn’t have let him-”

“I told him to.” Aedale closed her eyes. “I told him to get my staff…”

“And he listened,” said Wynne softly. “You’ve lost a great deal, Champion. It’s okay to hurt. But you did everything you could to save him, and it almost killed you too.”

_We talked about it. This is the same conversation that we were having after Kirkwall. After the world had been blown up. This is all the same._

_Except it isn’t._

“Leave me alone.” Her voice was creaking and thickened, but it sounded like the crack of the flames. She could feel the lightning in her veins, hissing angrily, impatiently – there was fury, fury to be unleashed and burn the village of Forthing to the ground, and the world with it, because the world _kept on taking everything from her and it was time to retaliate_. She let go-

And suddenly there was a white flash, and the power was gone.

“No.” Wynne’s voice was calm and allowed no protest. “You’ll kill yourself if you do that.”

Nathaniel looked at the both of them cautiously, blinking away the flash. “Do what?”

“See, my dear boy, when normal mages lose control, they change into abominations.” Nathaniel grimaced at the _boy,_ and Wynne flashed a quick smile. “She, however… she is the daughter of Malcolm Hawke. So she just burns a hole through the fabric of the world. But right now all the magic she has is just about enough to keep her alive and breathing, so I _strongly_ suggest it stays inside.” She cast a steely look at her patient.

“Leave,” said Aedale in a calmer voice. “I want to be alone.”

Isabela brushed her fingers across her arm. “Just say the word, Hawke. We’ll be there for you.”

“Leave. Please.”

_Fenris._

When the faces disappeared from her field of vision in various shares of concern, shame, and worry, Aedale closed her eyes and let herself cry.

 

-/-

The next days were filled with mourning silence. As soon as Hawke could sit up, she’d demanded parchment and a quill, and she stained the bedsheets with ink writing the letters to Aveline, Donnic, and Merrill. The ravens from Nathaniel’s gift were sent with the letters, and she watched them fly away with impassive, empty eyes. _He’d bring me the letters to proofread. He never told me how it hurt his pride, but what’d hurt more would be sending badly spelt letters…_ She cried, but it didn’t help, so she stopped.

She was empty – magicless, powerless, emotionless. 

Nathaniel came once, offering stiff condolences one more time. She greeted him with a pale smile and asked about Jainen; he shook his head and said that there was no information. She thanked him for his hospitality. He waved his hand in an awkward dismissive gesture. Then he went away.

Wynne was more helpful, coming several times a day and pouring healing magic under her skin. Her own power seemed erratic, and the healer said it was because she’d stretched its limits to the brink and then emptied it all; it was returning slowly, but her control was frayed, and she lost her temper easily.

Wynne was patient.

“Why are you doing this?” asked Aedale on one particularly frustrating day, where for one moment she’d been almost able to walk comfortably – and then she’d collapsed on the corridor, so weak that she’d had to rely on the passing Grey Wardens to bring her back to the infirmary. “Don’t you have a revolt going on in Kinloch Hold? Aren’t you kind of busy?”

“Yes, and yes.” Wynne moved her hands across her chest and shoulders, bathing her skin with soft blue glow. “I should be on my way right now. But I trust Nathaniel and his judgement.”

Aedale snorted. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

The healer shot her a long measuring look. “That you are worth keeping alive. For many reasons, some of them political.”

“Political? I have no authority anymore, Enchanter-”

“Wynne,” said the woman gently.

“Kirkwall is a flaming ruin. I’ve seen it. The mages are warring and divided, and we’ll all get exterminated for Anders if this keeps up. I can’t help you. I’ll do whatever I can, but now… I’ve got nothing.” _Nothing and no-one._ She swallowed with difficulty.

The older woman shook her head. “We are kept updated on the situation in Kirkwall. The situation there is far from resolved. Knight-Commander Cullen sent for aid, but the Divine is… concerned with the situation of the mages if the present trend continues. The Circles won’t be help up by sheer force alone.”

Aedale kept silent, churning through the new piece of information. _So Kirkwall is still a battlefield._ A crippling fear for Aveline and Merrill sent child down her spine. The amount of people she could not afford to lose was shrinking.          

“And Jainen?”

“Probably all abominations.” Wynne didn’t raise her head, focused on her healing.

“What?!”

“Not many mages prefer self-destruction over possession, my child. And Claire knows that too, limited as her understanding of magic is. She’s a Warden. She knows what kind of whispers wake when people are desperate.”

“How are you so… so calm about it?” Aedale blinked furiously, looking at the white-haired woman incredulously. “This is a disaster. If this spreads through Ferelden, then…”

“I’ve seen a broken Circle before. You must have heard the stories.” Wynne finally looked up and Hawke could see the lines of age around her tired eyes. “Sometimes we keep calm because none of the choices we have are good, and you won’t choose the less evil one with a hot head… and you know that too, Champion, don’t you?”

 _The choice of the Champion._ “But this is… this will be war! There will be a March-”

“You might wonder why I got here so soon after you fell ill,” said Wynne. “I wasn’t in Kinloch, as Claire has quickly learnt. I’d imagine that’s why she didn’t send the letter… poor Nathaniel needs to work on his excuses. I was already travelling to Cumberland. There will be a vote.”

“The vote on what?”

“Disaffiliation,” said the mage grimly. “The end of Templar control over the circles. The war is brewing, and we’re debating the split of the structures that have kept us safe… But the College of Enchanters will decide. From then on, we’ll see the dawn of the new world as it unfolds.”

Aedale stared at her.

“A Circle is dying in our own land and you’re only worried about politics?”

“Politics is hardly ever only about politics, my child.” Wynne shot her a steely glance. “It is an easier way to coerce the other side to give us what we want, possibly without starting an all-consuming war. The Circle in Jainen is dead. There is nothing we can do to change it. What we can change is the future of the mages in Thedas.”

“ _You don’t know if it’s dead!_ ” The fury in Aedale’s voice surprised even herself. Wynne stopped the spell and looked at her with impassive eyes.

Heavy silence hung in the air.

“Aedale,” started Wynne softly.

Hawke shook her head. “Don’t call me that. This is the name I left behind long ago. And don’t try to patronise me, Enchanter, I might be bedridden, but I’m not stupid. You’re a political player, an Aequitarian, aren’t you? And it’s been quite a while since you’ve travelled with the Queen, right? ‘Cause I’m have a sneaking feeling that she wouldn’t approve of what you’re doing now. She would go and save the people.”

Wynne’s eyes hardened. “Do not presume,” she said slowly, “what you have no notion about.”

“You know, I’m so sick of it.” Hawke sat up straighter. “Since I walked off that ship, there’s just so many things happening, and it seems I can’t keep up. Things in the White Spire, things in Orlais, in the Free Marches, here in Ferelden. All because of one madman’s explosion. But I think I can put the pieces together now. You, with Nathaniel the Smiley there, want to make sure I don’t kill myself here with another magical explosion… not because you care so much about me, but because you need the Champion of Kirkwall here. In case the vote doesn’t go your way. You want me to stand in front of the College and the Divine and say, this is how it started, this is why it was a mistake, this is why the mages of Kirkwall should band with us and return to the fold...” She balled her fists. “But you’re a political player, Enchanter. I’m not. I’m first and foremost a mage, and I would _never_ abandon by own, and definitely not for the sake of supporting the status quo.”

Wynne looked at her for a long moment, and then resumed the healing spell. The blue aura again enveloped her hands.

“You’re sharp, my child,” she said gently, with just the slightest edge in her voice. “And you’re lashing out because of your grief. But you should not presume that my plans for you stretch any further than keeping you alive. All the other decisions will be yours to make.”

“Like what? Helping the Divine clamp down on mage rebellion?” sneered Aedale.

“If need be,” said Wynne with a calm face. She reached for Hawke’s wrists and opened her tightly clenched fists; without a word, she held her hands over the insides of the scarred palms, healing the red, bloody half-moons where Hawke’s nails bore into her skin.

“How can you do that?” asked Aedale after a long pause. “How can you… just take the Chantry’s side and forget about the way we’re tracked and trapped and stripped of own of freedom and emotions, how they demonise us and put the Templars at every door, and then, for the crimes of one man, they hunt us down and murder with cold blood? _How?_ ”

“Because we are not better,” said Wynne, and it suddenly sounded very, very tired; there was an echo of over fifty years of fruitless struggle in her voice.

“That cleric,” said Aedale quietly. “She killed the mage first. In cold blood. But I let her live, because she was grieving too, she’d lost her sister in Kirkwall… I was thinking, I’d be the bigger man, I’d show that violence leads to more violence… And she killed Fenris. _She killed Fenris._ ” Fire blossomed on her bloodied fists, fighting Wynne’s blue glow.

“I’m so very sorry, my child,” said Wynne with a soft voice. Aedale shook her head.

“No. You don’t get this. This is the end. This is where all negotiations stop, and where I make my choice.” _Choice of the Champion._ “I fought for the balance between the Chantry and the mages for almost ten years, Enchanter. And I owe you nothing. You can tell the Divine when she asks for me that I was willing to help them once. But then the Chantry _took Fenris away from me._ ”

The red flame rose and engulfed Wynne’s hands; she withdrew them quickly as if she’d had been burned. There was silence.

“It was one misguided woman looking for revenge,” said Wynne after a long while.

“It was one desperate man looking for justice,” said Aedale, her face white but firm. “And he blew up the world. And so we all pay the price.”

 _But he didn’t take Fenris away from me._ In the distance, she could her the cawing of the returning crows. 

“Is this final, Champion?” asked Wynne. “You will not stand before the College or the Divine?”

“I will not.”

The healer nodded slowly, and she looked very, very old. “They will hunt you,” she said, measuring every word like a dark, heavy lump of steel falling in between them. “They will blame you for everything. If they only can, they will send an Exalted March after you. You will be remembered as the mage who started the rebellion.”

Aedale scoffed. “I couldn’t tell you how little I care about all of this, Enchanter.”

“Good.” When Hawke looked at her, surprised, Wynne smiled bitterly. “You’ll need that sort of attitude later on.”

Aedale stared at her mutely. Wynne just shook her head and stood up.

“Nathaniel hoped you were going to be the one to end this. He wasn’t wrong, I think. He just never thought that _end_ could mean the end of the world as we know it… but maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maker knows that the world has been rubbish for a long time.” She took her staff from the bedside and turned away. “Andraste bless you, child. You’ll get your strength back soon. Now, however… I should move on to my traitorous politics, I believe.”

She walked towards the door.

“Did you know my father in the Circle?” asked Aedale from the bed. Wynne turned back to her, offering a small smile.

“Yes. Malcolm was a handful. Very powerful, but a handful. I see it hasn’t been lost in the family.”   

“No,” said Aedale. “It hasn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After all of her Kirkwall years spent juggling the Chantry and the mages, I can't imagine anything less than the absolute depth of grief to turn Hawke against the Divine. In my mind, this is where she ceases to be the Champion of Kirkwall only, and becomes the Champion of the mages.
> 
> Also, I’m imagining that Wynne and Malcolm knew each other quite well at the Fereldan Circle, and maybe even shared the escape plan – but as she did not quite have the guts, or the will, to follow it through, she ended up only helping him out. And maybe smuggling out some mage goodies for him later.
> 
> Honestly, someone needs to write up Malcolm Hawke’s Great Escape, cloak-and-dagger style.


	7. Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke follows through with her choice.

Hawke disappeared the next day.

Isabela had discovered it when she’d knocked on the infirmary door and found it half-opened; her curses were heard at the other side of the castle. Varric and Nathaniel were next, one furious, the other more annoyed than usual; after that, the news spread throughout the Keep that the Champion had vanished, leaving only the dirty bandages behind her. When Nathaniel found out that Wynne had also left earlier during the day, he let out a string of courses that rivalled those of Isabela.

“Why are those bloody mages so difficult to keep track of?”

“Because they’re in the middle of it all,” said Varric grimly. They were back in the Queen’s office, Isabela pacing impatiently, Nathaniel staring at the pile of papers that was steadily growing by the day, and Varric just simply clenching his fists. “They’re like the ten in a dart game… always the bloody hardest to get. She can’t have gone far. She’s half dead right now, and more than half mad from grief. Grandma saw her last, perhaps they are together.”

“The guards have seen Wynne leave alone,” said Nathaniel. “She left a note to the Queen and went away. I sent people after both of them, but I doubt we can find a mage that doesn’t want to be found.”

“Fat lot of good that Warden business does you, then,” said Isabela snarkily. “Can’t you just let her mabari out and see where he goes? Where’s that dog anyway?”

“Gone,” said Varric. “That was the second thing I checked.”

“What was the first?”

“Her list of the dead,” answered the dwarf grimly. “I took it away from her when she was unconscious. It’s gone from my sacks now.”

Isabela cursed foully.

“I swear, the moment I get my hands on her…”

“If the dog is with her, we can use our mabari to track them by his scent,” said Nathaniel, picking up a forgotten dog whistle from the mess on the desk. “She could make herself untraceable, but not him. We’ll find her. Any ideas where she would go?”

Isabela blanched. “Fuck.”

“What,” Varric said blankly as they both looked at her in alarm. “Don’t tell me. You just had a brilliant idea about where Hawke is, and we’re all in deep nugshit because of that.”

“I know where she’s gone,” said Isabela. Nathaniel sighed deeply and put on his longbow.

 

-/-

 

They were too late - the thick cloud of greasy black smoke was visible from the distance, darkening the entire horizon. The sparse Warden group accompanying them started cursing quietly behind their backs; the dogs they’d brought were scraping their noses helplessly, pulling on the leashes to get away from the awful scorching smell.

Forthing’s Chantry was burning.

“There’s no way we can track anyone in that smoke, Captain,” said one of the Wardens to Nathaniel. “It’s just hurting the mabari.”

“Jonas, take them away,” ordered Nathaniel with an unreadable expression. “Get to the Keep and send us an elemental mage. The rest of you, with me.”

The Warden obeyed and unleashed the dogs; with one sharp command, they sprang forward, running away from the thick smoke, and the man followed. Varric coughed.

“That’s about it for tracking Hawke in this mess.”

The fire brigade from Amaranthine was already there, passing buckets of water in a chain that seemed all too familiar from several days before. Isabela cringed; the cracking of the flames brought in the raw recollection of several days before. Nathaniel barked a short order and the Wardens joined the brigade, working in an effective tandem.

They stared forward. The stone skeleton of the building seemed intact; it was the inside that was burning, the thick black smoke coming from the roof and poisoning the air. They could see how the emblem of the Sun melts and bends in the fire, before finally collapsing in the heat. The flames licking the roof were angrily, vengefully red.

“Casualties?” asked Nathaniel.

“None, Captain.” The Warden in front of him shook his head curtly. “They said a dragon did it, Captain, or a phoenix. They say they’d heard a terrifying cry of a bird of prey, and they all ran out; and then the fire started.”

“ _What_ bird of-” Nathaniel trailed off. He closed his eyes for a second. “Thank you, Bart,” he said. But the Warden had not finished yet.

“They say it was the vengeance for the lighting the Champion’s ship on fire, Captain. Everybody knows that this is the cleric’s fault. And now the Champion had summoned a phoenix to rain hell down on Forthing, the mage she is.”

“Bart, you’re friends with mages in the Keep.” Nathaniel looked his subordinate straight in the eye. “Would they be able to do it? Think about it.”

The Warden hesitated. “She’s the Champion, Captain. There are stories.”

“Most of them fabricated by yours truly,” muttered Varric under his breath.

“As of now, we don’t know who did this,” said Nathaniel, accentuating his words with curt gestures. “And as the Wardens, the only thing we care about in our lands is _peace and order._ The fire will be extinguished and the culprit found. That is all.”

“Yes, Captain.” The Warden gave a quick bow and walked back to the line of fire brigadiers.

Left alone at the light of the burning Chantry, Varric, Isabela, and Nathaniel looked at each other.

“She did it,” said Nathaniel. It wasn’t a question.

Varric cursed under his breath. “Cry of a bird of prey? For fuck’s sake, this story basically writes itself. Maker’s flaming asscheeks, Hawke…”

“She had a right,” said Isabela, looking at Nathaniel provokingly, as if she was inviting him to disagree. “They burnt our ship. They killed her lover. This is less than they deserve.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Believe me, I know how it feels to crave vengeance,” he said, and there was a strain in his voice; the heritage of the house Howe lurking close to the surface. “But if law were enforced by strength alone, we’d all be ruled by tyrants. She is not law. She _cannot_ be law.”

“She made them go outside. She didn’t kill anyone,” said Varric almost pleadingly. “She’s mad from grief, Broody, they killed her lover! And if you let the news out that _another_ mage burned down a fucking Chantry in Ferelden…”

These words hung in the air, heavy and thick like the smoke.

One more burned temple…

The scale of the world was tipping. 

Nathaniel stared at the flames, his face unmoving. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “There are many candles in a Chantry. The local cleric has been known to be… careless around fire. When they heard a strange noise from the outside, and all the faithful hurried to leave… it’s just a matter of one man knocking over a candle next to the draperies…”

Varric lowered his head in mute gratitude.

“She was still wrong to do it,” said Nathaniel quietly. Something of an understanding passed through the dwarf’s face.

“Wonderful woman, that Claire Cousland, right?” he said almost conversationally, staring straight ahead. “To the point. Very powerful. And I’ve heard she’s also quite pretty. Right, Isabela?”

The pirate raised one eyebrow at him.

“Your point, dwarf?” said Nathaniel briskly.

“It’s a pity she’s taken. With the King himself, no less”

The Warden’s face flushed with an ugly purple shade. In the red light of the fire, the effect was striking. “ _What._ ”

“I’m not saying anything,” replied Varric, uncharacteristically passing on an opportunity to ridicule. “Perhaps, though, just perhaps, if there were someone left behind, waiting for her to pass by, for years and years and years… they would do everything in their power to help her. Or to help… someone _like_ her. Someone similarly powerful. Dare I say, similarly broken. With the same sort of light and the same sort of darkness. They’d know the type.”

Nathaniel stuttered. The purple blush was spreading across his face to his ears, creating a grotesque contrast with his black hair. “This is not the time nor the place to discuss that. _If_ there were anything to discuss, that is. Which there is not.”

“Oh,” said Isabela, finally catching on. “You have a crush on good ol’ Claire? This is very sweet, but you need to stand in line. That woman left more people in love with her than _I_ did, and that’s one hell of an achievement.”

“I am _not_ harbouring any sort of feelings towards my Commander-”

“Except respect, perhaps. I wasn’t suggesting anything more,” cut him off Varric, shooting Isabela a nasty glance. “All I was saying was that… if there were someone in a similar situation, he would be a good man to help out another woman. And he would be thanked.”

Nathaniel stared at the fire with a blank expression. His face was cold, the flush slowly fading away with obvious conscious effort. Varric looked away; but Isabela did not, and she saw the raw sorrow and longing hidden in Nathaniel’s dark eyes.  

“You’re welcome,” he said.

The fire crackled and breathed dark smoke. It was slowly dying down, thanks to the effort of the fire brigade and the Wardens; suddenly the world wrinkled and a mage Fade-stepped out of nothing, scaring the more religious of the brigadiers. The staff swirled in her hands and a small ball of water rose from the cisterna, splashing out at the fire. Soon a steady chain of flying water followed the chain of buckets, and the flames died down, hardly seen anymore from outside the black, charred stone.

“I don’t suppose it’s any worth looking out for Hawke?” said Isabela after a long pause.

“We’ll look after the fire is put out,” replied Nathaniel. His face was still unreadable. “We’ll find her.”

After the Wardens had finished extinguishing the fire, it was long after sunset; the dogs were brought back, and they sought the trail all night long, but they did not find anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course. The healer told you not to do magic? Go burn some churches to the ground and then disappear. Aedale Hawke, Listening to The Doctor’s Advice since 9:11 Dragon.


	8. Fall of the Champion

**CHOICE OF THE CHAMPION**

**Part II: ANTEBELLUM**

**Chapter 8: The Fall of the Champion**

 

Hawke was shivering so violently that her teeth clattered in a loud, ominous rattle. She clutched Vindr tightly, drawing on the warmth that the dog seemed to emanate, but it wasn’t enough; she was drained, and the world was slowly disappearing in a kaleidoscope of Faded colours and lights…

A wet lick brought her back for a short second, before she plunged back into the unreality. Vindr shifted uncertainty, feeling that his mistress was unwell, but unsure what to do about it.

“S-stupid,” moaned Hawke into his ear, clutching his thick neck like a lifeline. “S-stupid mage, stupid Hawke, the fire… the Fade-step… too much. Must… must…” She let out a quiet whimper, and the dog licked her face again. She tumbled to the side, falling flat on her back, and curled around the dog again. “Fenris… Fenris.”

Vindr let out a quiet, mournful whine.

They were in a little cave at the site of the Wounded Coast; the wind was whistling loudly through the holes that thousands of years of water made in the stone, and Hawke was _cold._ It wasn’t just wind; there had been fire inside her, once, the red spirals of flaming ribbons nestling around her heart. But they were gone. The storm was raging outside.

She’d Fade-stepped from Forthing the moment she’d seen the fire catch on; without a chance to focus, she’d torn the Fade randomly, out of sheer luck landing on the coast and not in the sea. Vindr, dragged along through the Fade, had howled and whined, but hadn’t let go of his mistress.

She hugged the dog closer.

It was all too similar to when Fenris had gone away from her; those dull, cold mornings inside the empty Amell mansion, when Bodahn was at the market and Oriana hid in the kitchen, still not quite believing she was allowed out; Hawke would wander her own house like a gloomy spectre haunting a place of long-lost happiness, without father, without Bethany, without Carver, without mother, without… _without Fenris._ Only Vindr would follow her every step silently, his heavy head bobbing up and down as he climbed the stairs of the vestibule alongside her. She closed her eyes, her mind slipping from the present.

Vindr made a loud, pathetic noise.

Something was off. Something… the reality was quivering like a string that was set a little bit too loose, like the hot air over the flame reflected the light in a different way.

Hawke crawled away from the buzzing sensation of something being _not right, not right,_ but it only strengthened; and when she closed her eyes, the whispers hit her.

_Underneath. Underneath. Red shadows underneath, the pulsating blood in your veins, marked, chosen, special, ours, red, red, red._

Vindr started growling, a deep, primeval sound of a threat.

She opened her eyes and, scrambling to sit up, she raised her head – and, glimmering dangerously at the far end of the cave, there was red lyrium.

The raw power radiating from it almost blinded her. She had been so empty, ravenous for anything to fill the void inside after the fiery ribbons of power had vanished from her chest; and now that was the magical equivalent of a royal feast spreading in front of her. The temptation was too great; somewhere at the back of her head, she could hear a tiny voice of reason yelling at her angrily to stop and think, but the lyrium was there, and she needed, oh, she _needed_ it. She stretched out her hand – the whispers shimmered in excitement –

Vindr bit her.

She recoiled, swearing, and tumbled backwards. There was no blood – Maker only knows what she’d do if she saw her own blood now, too tempting, too tempting – but and angry red mark blossomed on her skin. Pain sharpened her senses, clearing the thick red fog of confusion she’d been drowning in. The lyrium was singing, yes, it sang like its normal blue kind, and it was whispering, but it was _angry,_ and it seemed… it seemed…

 _Evil._ The picture of Meredith turned into red lyrium statue in the torched Gallows flashed in her mind before she suppressed it. Hawke swallowed with difficulty.

“Good dog,” she said. Vindr looked at her with his intelligent animal eyes; he did not seem placated. “Not… not turning into Meredith. Not yet.”

She crawled away from the lyrium, slipping in and out of reality with every uncertain push; the walls of the cave seemed to be swirling, dancing ominously around her… The red mineral kept singing from behind her, overpowering, angry, _powerful,_ but as its song grew more distant she could hear the desperation in it, a hopeless desire to be found by a living creature. Lyrium… wanted to be touched. Wanted to be consumed, wanted to be… to be…

 _Wanted to eat._ Aedale shuddered. _We’re not taking lyrium for power…_ it _is taking_ us _._ Through the double-vision of delirium she could see the foggy contours of the Fade covering the cave, but the lyrium was the same. It existed in two worlds simultaneously, like all mages, like herself… and like Fenris.

 _My staff._ Thinned lips, tightly clenched fists, obedience. He had obeyed her, in the end. She had called for her staff and he… he had gone to fetch it.

And he died.

 _Your fault, your fault, your fault, your fault,_ sang red lyrium. _You never freed him. You were too selfish ever to truly give him freedom… He just traded a master for a mistress._

No. Not true. It couldn’t be true, not if she wanted to keep her sanity. She loved him. And he loved her, and that was why he listened…

 _He listened, and he obeyed, and it killed him,_ the lyrium taunted her from behind. 

She crawled out of the cave on the pouring rain. In an instant the water soaked her to the core; she could hardly see anything through the furiously pounding raindrops assaulting her eyes, forcing her to keep them closed. Her clothes – whatever she had managed to steal from the Grey Wardens equipment when she fled – were cold, damn and muddy. She was shivering, freezing, on the verge of utter exhaustion.

The sea was crashing and roaring.

Hawke raised her head with the last effort. She had pulled this sea, just days ago. She had made it obey her… she had taken the sea and made it do her bidding. This was nothing else. Nothing different… She reached out in the direction of the crashing waves.

“Obey me,” she whispered through the thickened throat. “Give him back. Give him _back._ ” She got up on her knees; her words were swallowed whole in the roar of the waves. “ _GIVE HIM BACK!_ ”

The blinding light of the lightning split the sky. Hawke felt the jolt of energy as if it went through her own veins. Her entire body shook convulsively; she fell onto the muddy rock, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the white-hot blinding pain to fade away.

Vindr howled wildly.

_This is the end._

And suddenly someone’s thin, strong fingers clasped on her arm decisively, and then there was nothing.

 

-/-

 

It was warm. Warmer than anything in the Marches, or Ferelden, or even the cities of Tevinter. It was hot and humid, and his lungs protested when Fenris drew in a shaky breath and opened his eyes.

His hands were clutching Hawke’s makeshift, torched staff.

And in front of him, swaying with the sound of the crashing northern gales behind his back, spread the jungles of Seheron.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA! I GOT YOU! Seriously though. It’s not like I was going to kill off the main character’s love interest.
> 
> This is the end of Antebellum! Thank you for making it this far with me. The third part, “Sea and Lightning”, is currently being written, with about seven chapters in. With Antebellum focused mostly on the arson and Fenris’ death (hmpf disappearance), “Sea and Lightning” will hopefully shed more light on what is actually going on in Jainen, the case of red lyrium, and one elf’s journey back to Ferelden. Expect to see good old Stroud and Her Highness Warden-Commander Claire Cousland, and – as Hawke learns more about her magic and its origins – a certain troublemaker from the Inquisition… 
> 
> Go to [Part III: Sea and Lightning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8519701/chapters/19528294) here.


End file.
